A Proper Scandal (17 page)

I
t took considerable effort to convene Falcondale and his wife, Elisabeth, and Lady Banning in the arched alcove at the back of the ballroom. Bryson had scouted this dim, secluded corner because it was far enough from the musicians to be heard over the instruments, and far enough from the food and drink to hold little interest to other guests. A few couples, inappropriately secluded in the shadows, hurried away when he led the group to the chosen spot.

“Forgive me for tearing you from the party,” Rainsleigh began when they gathered around him. “I beg just a moment of your time to . . . celebrate.”

“You've sold another boat?” guessed Falcondale.

“No. Something more important than the boats.” He stole a look at Elisabeth. She was watching him cautiously, an uncertain smile on her face. He was more nervous than he expected, and he bore on. “I asked you here to celebrate a betrothal.”

Lady Banning let out a muffled shout but then quickly clamped a hand over her mouth.

“A what?” Elisabeth laughed. She looked between Bryson and her aunt and back again.

He swallowed and forced himself to follow through. “Lady Elisabeth Hamilton-Baythes,” he said, dropping to one knee. “Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?” With shaking hand, he held out a ring. Topaz and diamonds glinted on a thin band of gold. He looked up.

She stared back with an expression that fell somewhere between surprise and stone-cold shock. Her eyes were wild and large, her mouth halfway open. She raised her hands but then froze in mid-air, as if she was about to burst into applause.

Rainsleigh watched her, feeling the timpani boom of his pulse in his neck. Beneath his cravat, sweat beaded and rolled down his back. He willed her to say something while everyone watched, while he held his very breath.

She bore on in frozen silence, her eyes fixed on the ring. She seemed incapable of looking him in the eye.

But then her aunt finished the shout she had begun, and Piety joined her with a near-yelp. Lady Banning launched herself at Elisabeth, and her enthusiasm propelled her. Elisabeth blinked—once, twice—and her hands fell to her sides. He could see her taking very quick, shallow breaths. Lady Banning rained down tearful kisses, shaking her back to life. She hustled Elisabeth against him, and he was forced to his feet to catch her. She allowed it, falling against him, and she hid her face against his chest.

He had the fleeting thought,
Oh God, what have I done? She is abashed. Or overwhelmed. Or opposed
.

The Countess of Banning and Lady Falcondale embraced and cried and exclaimed, while Beau and Falcondale did their best to awkwardly contain them. Other guests drew closer, curious of the commotion. Women leaned to each other, whispering. Necks craned, eyes squinted into their corner of the ballroom. A handful of the couples on the dance floor stopped waltzing altogether to stare in their direction. He caught sight of his cousin Kenneth staggering from the drinks table, as if to join them.

God, no—that's all this situation bloody needs.

He sought out his brother's gaze and jerked his head toward Kenneth. Beau nodded back and left the group, striding to intercept.

Meanwhile, Falcondale's wife shared the happy news with one nearby woman and then another. Details of the betrothal spread from group to group in two directions. Curious onlookers drifted closer, staring, remarking. Judging? Perhaps. He couldn't be sure. Mostly, he saw open curiosity, fascination. They bore witness to colorful gossip in the making.

At least the baroness's venue provided an esteemed backdrop. And the countess's undeniable enthusiasm lent aplomb. She veritably bounced up and down as she discussed the happy news with a growing circle of her matronly friends. Elisabeth was already a subject of interest because it was so rare to see her out. And now this.

Rainsleigh pivoted reflexively, blocking her from the scrutiny. She went along, still uncharacteristically quiet, her pliant body warm against him. He was painfully aware that she had yet to utter one crucial—and crucially absent—word.

“Elisabeth?” he said in a low voice, speaking to the top of her head.

She looked up. She smiled. Not a beaming smile, not the smile he expected, but not a dismissive or regretful smile either. Slowly now, deliberately, she unfolded her arm and reached out.

The ring. She wanted it.

He slid it on her finger in a rush. His hand shook. It had felt more substantial and easier to hold in the jeweler's shop.

“A topaz,” he whispered. “Unpretentiousness. For you.”

“And the diamonds?” she whispered back.

“The highest quality. For me.”

She nodded, staring with a dazed expression at the twinkling ring on her finger.

Before he could stop himself, Bryson said, “May I take this to mean you have . . . accepted the offer?”

Her head shot up. She looked surprised. She bit her bottom lip and smiled again, blinking back tears. She nodded, and he could finally breathe again.

“But Bryson?” she asked. “I would speak to you alone, please? Tonight. Right away. Is there some place we may go to have a conversation in private?” Her voice quavered.

This unexpected request dimmed the glow just a little, but he ignored it. “Of course,” he said. “Let me just inquire—”

“My aunt will know,” she said and reached for the countess.

Moments later, Lady Banning led them to a wide corridor at the opposite corner of the ballroom. Elisabeth burrowed into him as he escorted her on his arm, but she said nothing, staring resolutely at her aunt's back.

“There is a map room along this hall,” Lady Banning explained, leading them down the corridor. “Ah, yes, here it is. The baroness's sons are hobbyists, and she has relegated their cartography to a former parlor.”

They were just about to disappear into the room when Rainsleigh heard his brother call his name. He looked back to see Beau trotting down the hall in their direction. Rainsleigh signaled him:
Not now
.

Beau shook his head—two slow, heavy shakes—and kept coming. Rainsleigh stopped, alarmed by his dark look.

Elisabeth slipped from his arm. “Bryson?”

“I'll be right in,” he assured her, keeping one eye on his brother. “Please go along. I must have a word with my brother.”

Elisabeth looked uncertain, eyeing Beau as he jogged to them.

“It won't take a second,” Bryson assured her carefully. “Look. Your aunt is already inside. Wait with her for me?”

Elisabeth consented, disappearing after her aunt, and Bryson strode to meet his brother halfway. “What is it?” he snapped.

“It's Kenneth.”

Rainsleigh shrugged. His brother would only interrupt him if something had gone horribly wrong with their cousin. “A drunken scene?”

Beau shook his head. “No. Not that. I hustled him outside and down the street easily enough. It's merely . . . it's what he was saying as we went. He was blathering on. No one of consequence heard, but it worried me. I had to tell you.”

“Blathering about what? What did he say?”

Beau glanced at the map room behind Bryson and then back. “He was going on about Elisabeth, of all people.”

“What about Elisabeth?”

“He happened to be beside her at the buffet, and in his inebriated state, he apparently tripped and fell very nearly at her feet.”

Rainsleigh gritted his teeth. “Did he touch her?”

“No, no, it was nothing like that. He was on the floor, and she stepped out of his way. But apparently there was some floundering moment where he looked up at her—stared at her, I assume—and he . . . ” Beau faltered.

“Say it, Beau. Kenneth fell and what happened? Did he speak to her?”

“No, not that I'm aware. As far as I know, she went on her way, but Kenneth claims to have passed the remainder of the night
watching
the two of you.”

“Watching us?” Rainsleigh repeated, incredulous. It made his skin crawl, but he failed to see the impact. “And?”

Beau nodded and exhaled uncomfortably. “And—look, I know it's madness, but Kenneth has become convinced that Elisabeth looks like someone he's . . . encountered before.”

“Elisabeth encountered
Kenneth
?” Rainsleigh wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of this, but something about the look on Beau's face stopped him. Instead he said, “Elisabeth and Kenneth hardly travel in the same circles. In fact, Elisabeth is rarely seen out. Encountered where?”

Beau gave a bitter laugh. “That's the ridiculous bit, and I why I came for you.” He paused again, eyeing Bryson as if he did not trust his reaction. He took a deep breath. “It was something about a night of whoring—years ago. You and he and Father . . . ”

Rainsleigh seized at the mention of their father, and he struggled to hear the rest of what Beau had to say.

“It was nonsense, obviously,” Beau went on. “Why would Elisabeth be in a
brothel
? He said it was fifteen years ago; she would have been little more than a girl. I've issued a very strident warning to him—cease all conversation of his misguided ‘recollection,' whatever it may be, and I think he understood.”

Rainsleigh himself was scrambling to understand. “
What
about Elisabeth and a night of whoring?” He worked to keep his voice calm while anxiety knifed his gut and twisted. “Tell me again. Everything. Everything he said. He claimed someone who looked like Elisabeth was seen in a brothel
with
Father?”

Beau sighed, shaking his head. “It was something about a night when you were at Cambridge. On a lark, Father, along with Kenneth and Uncle Bernard, took a carriage from Rossmore Court to London so that Father might sample the pleasures of some luminary whore, a great nubile beauty. Apparently Father fancied young women—one of the many predilections to which I would rather not be privy, but Kenneth thought it was a laugh.”

“Yes, yes, but what about Elisabeth?”

“Among the whores who may or may not have been this acclaimed ladybird, Kenneth claims he saw Elisabeth—or the young Elisabeth of years ago. As I've said, she would have been little more than a girl at the time. So—”

“Rather swift memory,” Bryson said, “to recall a look-alike from years ago.”

Beau shrugged. “Apparently, Kenneth and Bernard had been sent ahead the night before to scout out the proclaimed courtesan, and this is the girl they were shown—the one Elisabeth favors. One can only guess she was also ginger-haired. Kenneth hardly seems like a chronicler of subtle detail. Oh,” Beau added, “the fiction is complete with this bit. I can't believe I forgot. Kenneth claimed
you were there too
.”

“
What
?”

Beau nodded, chuckling. “According to Ken, they'd abducted you from your bed and hauled you along purely to torment you. To parcel you off with some experienced ladybird . . . to ‘make a man of you,' that sort of nonsense.” He looked philosophical. “Actually, it's the only part of the story that rings true, sadistic bastards.”

The story went on, Beau filling in more details, but Bryson had stopped listening. A distant buzzing rose in his ears, drowning out all other sound.

Parcel you off to bed with some experienced ladybird . . .

To ‘make a man'
of you . . .

Bryson's head shot up.

He looked at the door through which Elisabeth had entered, then back at his brother, and back at the door. In his mind's eye, a memory unfurled. Long buried—long forgotten,
purposely
forgotten. It came slamming back now with a vividness and clarity that mocked real life.

He remembered.

Oh, God.

It
was
her.

“Beau?” he managed to rasp. His voice sounded strangled. “Who else heard Kenneth? Who?”

Beau studied him cautiously. “I told you; no one, really. It was a long rambling story, his speech was slurred, and I was hustling him out with due haste. Someone would have had to follow us to piece together the whole thing, and no one did. Why? My God, but you've gone white. What's wrong? Bryson—stop. Wait!”

He was already walking away. Slow, steady strides. Hands clenched into fists. It was all he could do not to break into a run. While he walked, he conjured up an image of the girl in his room that night. Red hair. Turquoise eyes. A brand on her shoulder. She had been beautiful, but oh, so young. A girl.

He stopped in front of the door to the map room. Beau rushed up behind him, reaching for him, but he jerked away. “Leave us,” he hissed. “I wished to be alone with my betrothed.”

Working to steady his breathing, he swallowed hard and stepped inside, slamming the door behind him.

E
lisabeth hadn't expected the door to slam, and her head shot up.

Bryson strode into the room, not looking at her, not speaking—he did not even acknowledge her aunt.

Inexplicably, she stood.

She watched him prowl the room, the sound of his boots on the marble tile barely audible over the pounding of her heart. His expression was granite.

“Lady Banning,” he said suddenly, partially turning. “Please, remain.” Elisabeth jumped at the bite in his voice.

“Not tonight, Rainsleigh,” Aunt Lillian declared lightly, pushing up from a chair. She gave Elisabeth's arm a squeeze and bustled toward the door.

He began, “It wouldn't do to be secreted away alone—”

“You are engaged to be married now,” she called over her shoulder. “This affords you ten minutes alone, I should think. Especially if I acknowledge it. I will not go far. The nearest corner of the ballroom. And I shall leave the door standing open, just a little. Elisabeth is not seventeen, and you are hardly a dandy.” Without a backward glance, she slipped into the hall. They were alone in the silence.

Elisabeth looked down at her twinkling engagement ring. It seemed odd now that a hard, twinkling stone would be her only reminder of his affection, but he would not meet her eyes. And his demeanor was off. Closed and dark. The unexpected distance was like an intrusive third person in the room.

She had planned to go to him, to take him by the hand and lead him to the settee so that they might have their talk. Now she forced herself to venture one step in his direction. She cleared her throat. The secret could not wait. Not even five minutes more.

“Bryson,” she began, “there is something I must—”

“Let me see your shoulder, Elisabeth,” he suddenly said, looking up. His eyes were ice-blue and hot with anger at the same time.

“I beg your pardon?” She shuffled one step back.

“Your shoulder. On the right. Let me see it.”

“Wha—” she began, but then his awful request sank in. She felt the blood drain from her face.

He knows.

Oh my God
.

He. Knows.

She looked again. His face was tight with agony, hard and closed off. She took a cannonball to the belly with that look. She reached for a chair to support her, struggling to stay upright.

He knew.

Not
her
way, not by
her
words or memories—but still, he knew. Tears shot to her eyes, and she felt her cheeks go warm, despite the clammy sweat of shock. Her mind leapt to the defensive, a wheel spinning for the most appropriate, diffusing thing to say. Her first impulse was to explain herself. Her defense was weak, perhaps, but legitimate. And he was a decent man—thoughtful and fair—and she had rehearsed this much with Jocelyn and Aunt Lilly. If they could but remain calm, if she could find the words. She lifted her head to implore him and—

The hardness of his gaze struck her mute. Anger, hurt, disbelief—she saw it all, plainly on his face. All of her solutions and excuses felt suddenly flat and one-note. She resorted, lamely, to shaking her head.

He started to her. “Perhaps you did not hear me,” he said, rounding a desk. “I want to see your shoulder.” His voice belonged to a stranger.

“You would have me disrobe?” she managed to say. “Right here?”

“Do it. Do it, or I will peel the gown back myself.”

She scuttled behind an adjacent chair. “You most certainly will
not
.” Now her own outrage flared, eclipsing her shock and shame. “You will not touch me.”

He kept coming, and she darted behind the next chair and the next. “What is wrong with you, Bryson? You are behaving like a madman.”

“Mad, am I?” he bit out. “Perhaps that's the result of learning I've been lied to.
For weeks
. Do not ask me what is wrong.”

“I will ask you. I don't care what you think I have done. I haven't
lied,
and I do not deserve undefined aggression from you.”

“Undefined?” He laughed bitterly. “What an accurate term. How very
undefined
the nature of our relationship has been.”

“What's happened?” she asked again. “What did your brother say to you?” She darted behind an easel of maps. She was nearly to the wall. She looked at the fireplace behind her and then back at him. Would he really dare touch her?

She gambled and stepped out from behind the chair and stood tall. “Watch your tone, Rainsleigh,” she said. “I will not be dominated by you simply because you are incensed. Rest assured, I will scream if you touch me.”

“My
tone
?” He stopped in front of her, and she held her breath. She found the courage to raise her chin.

“What do you discern
in my tone
?” he asked quietly. “Pray, define it for me, because what I
feel
is adrift.”

“You are not
adrift
,” she said as levelly as her voice would allow. “You are angry. But how can I address your anger if you do not say what is wrong?”

He studied her a moment, and she had the thought that she must suddenly look like a stranger to him too. Her chin went higher still. Let him look. She
willed him
to see that she was the same woman from the happy weeks before. “What did your brother tell you?” she whispered, staring into the narrow blue slits of his eyes.

“Oh, he explained the most unthinkable circumstance.”

“Unthinkable?” She took a step toward him. “Also
unspeakable
, I presume. Can you not even say it? I cannot defend myself if we do not say the words. But perhaps that is what you want.”

He threw out his arms. “What defense can there be for lying to me for weeks—for weeks, Elisabeth?”

“I did not
lie
,” she corrected firmly, loudly—possibly too loudly. “I have never lied. I simply have not . . . I didn't . . . ”

He shook his head and turned away. He began to pace. “Now who cannot say the words? How could you keep this from me? My God . . . ” He stopped pacing and leaned over a desk, planting his hands wide. “Did you remember me? When you saw me at your aunt's party last month? Did you remember me from”—he cleared his throat—“my father's trip to the brothel?”

She opened her mouth to speak and then closed it. She met his eyes and nodded.

“
When
?” he demanded lowly. “
When
did you remember me?”

“I . . . I have always known you.”

“Your long, glowing monologue to the marchioness at your aunt's dinner that night?” he said, realization dawning. “You leapt to my defense because you knew my life. You
knew me then
.”

“Yes,” she whispered. But then, louder and stronger, she said, “
Yes
, I knew you then. But I deserve to know what your brother said about my past. We may not even be talking about the same thing.”

“Oh, judging from your reaction, I think we are.”

“You
think,
but you don't know—listen to yourself! There is too much at stake not to have an honest conversation. This is the reason I wanted to speak to you after the betrothal.”

He let out a sad, angry laugh.

“Laugh if you must, but it was. Why else would I immediately insist that you come away from your friends and this party to a private room?”

“I don't know,” he said coldly, looking her up and down. “Why else might a woman of your previous vocation ask to come away to a private room—”

“How
dare
you,” Elisabeth gasped. Adrenaline shot through her veins like a lightning strike, and she charged on him, striding across the room with fists clenched.

He watched her come and went on. “According to your aunt, there is leniency now that we're promised to each other. I'm sure that door can be locked.”

She made a shrill sound of frustration and rage and stopped dead. His words opened up a chasm between them that could not be crossed. With shaking fingers, she reached for the betrothal ring that now pinched the skin of her left hand. Pulling to the point of pain, she worked it off.

“You are mad if you believe you will ever touch me again. I have seen a lot of unfeeling cruelty in my life, Bryson Courtland, but your behavior here tonight is cruelty unmatched. You are merciless.”

“Mercy?” he growled, rounding her, staring at her naked hand. “You wish for mercy? Here is mercy: Replace the ring on your finger, miss, because the betrothal still stands. I will not be jilted by you and become the subject of endless, speculating gossip. Not after I have toiled my entire life to avoid such talk.”

“Oh, and you're so certain that being jilted is worse than being married to a liar.”

“Would that you had merely lied,” he ground out.

“Meaning what?”

He squeezed his eyes shut and sucked in a calming breath. When he spoke again, his voice was low and emphatic. “When we go through with the marriage, no one need know that you were a—”

“
Do not
say it,” Elisabeth rasped. “You have no idea about that which you speak.”

“I saw you, Elisabeth—that night. I saw the brothel. I know what my father likes. I think I have some idea.”

“You are sorely mistaken, my lord,” she said, her voice barely under her command, “if you think I would ever bind myself to a man who would treat me so cruelly.”

“Cruelty? Where is the cruelty in offering marriage to a thirty-year-old spinster with no other prospects?”

“Oh, now flattery on top of all else!”

“And who runs a scandalous charity that I now know was founded from
personal experience
. My God,” he said, sounding inspired. “You had the opportunity to tell me the day of the tour. When you explained the history of the foundation. We spoke about it at length.
Why didn't you tell me
?”

“Because it is excruciating to discuss it, and I never speak of it! Not with anyone. It is my own private pain, and I would not casually bring it up to a man who just happened along. I had every reason to believe that you would
happen away
very soon.”

“I wasn't simply
a man
, Elisabeth. I was . . . ” He let the pronouncement fade away and tried again. “You would conceal it even from me?”

“By all means, I could conceal it from you. Until recently, I had not even revealed it to my aunt. It is a devastating, mortifying thing to put to words, Bryson. I wanted to be certain of your affections—certain enough that you would not respond as you have tonight. And besides, we were busy becoming acquainted. The time was never right. And I was
afraid
.” Her voice broke, but she spoke through the unshed tears. “Do not think I have kept this from you lightly. I have agonized over it since my aunt forced us together at her dinner. For what it's worth, I was going to tell you tonight.”

“Fine—good,” he said, putting his hands on his hips. “Tell me now.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“
No,
Bryson, it's over—it's too late.”

“Why, Elisabeth?
Why
is it too late?”

“Because you've been wretched to me, and accusatory, and unfeeling, and hateful. And after tonight, I will refuse to see you ever again.”

“On the contrary. After tonight, we will marry.”

“Stop saying that; we will not marry.”

“Some women in your position might consider it a great generosity to take you as my wife.”

Elisabeth took in a sharp breath. His words were like a knife, cutting each time a little bit closer to her heart.

Rainsleigh spun away and strode to the mantel over a low fire. He shook his head, staring into the flames, and ran a frustrated hand through his hair.

They were achingly familiar mannerisms; she had seen him do it fifty times before. Like a fool, she had the reflex to comfort him, to run to him and seek comfort from him in return. She would not—not now, not ever again—but to go against the impulse put a crack in her heart. She wrapped her arms around herself.

“Why, I wonder, did I believe I deserved more than this?” he suddenly said, speaking to the fire. “Considering
my
parents? Considering the squalor from which I came? There are things one may never overcome.”

Elisabeth let out a small sob. “You feel sorry for yourself? Because you've been saddled with
me
?”

He looked at her. The pain on his face was clear and deep. “You've won no prize in me, either, Elisabeth,” he said gravely. “I have a fortune but little respect.”

“I don't care about your respect. Find your own happiness, Rainsleigh, independent of how the lords and ladies of bloody Mayfair regard you.”

“There is no happiness without respect. This I know.”

“Oh, God,” she rasped, feeling the crack in her heart split completely. “I can't believe I held you in any measure of affection all this time.”

“Affection is not necessary to our union.”

“This offer improves every time you open your mouth. If you think I should fall at your feet in gratefulness simply because you'll have me . . . because you are rich, and powerful, and it will save me from eternal spinsterhood . . . you do not know me at all.”

“Oh, I think we've well established that tonight.”

Elisabeth blinked, determined to keep the tears from rolling down her cheeks. “Bravo,” she said brokenly, “and perhaps we have. But pray, do not fret. I can describe myself in one breath: I live a very full life. My work is important. I have enough money, all on my own. I can be perfectly satisfied devoting my life to saving innocent girls from attitudes likes yours.”

He made no response, and it occurred to her that she was finished here. He would hurt her more, the longer she remained. She had only one more thing to say.